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Sky Blue Sky | Wilco
Nonesuch | 15th May

Review by Thomas Mendelovits

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Sounds like … the world’s most sophisticated band of Americana coming to terms with their own greatness and perhaps, middle-age.

I’m not sure if Jeff Tweedy was joking at Wilco’s recent Palais show when he referred to ‘Heavy Metal Drummer’ from 2002’s Yankee Hotel Foxtrot as “our hit-song that you couldn’t go anywhere without hearing that summer”, but sadly, this newest record from one of pop’s most (un-)catchy institutions won’t bring them any instant financial riches.

Like many artists’ later releases, Sky Blue Sky sees Tweedy and the band moving into more reflective, even subdued, territory. The album follows some of the tendencies found on 2004’s A Ghost is Born, with soft-folk, soft-rock moments of post-punk. And much like that release, Sky Blue Sky rewards repeated plays, the melodies and lyrics worming their way deeper with every listen.

I have a theory that with each Wilco release their sound becomes more definitely their own just as it becomes more clearly indefinable. While Being There (1996), Summerteeth (1999) and even Yankee Hotel Foxtrot (2002) are unashamed pop, and A Ghost is Born more experimental, Wilco’s latest effort is restrained and on first listen can even seem deliberately obfuscating.

Many of the lyrics deal with Tweedy’s return to health, newfound optimism and apparent reflections on married life, while musically the album moves through plaintive country-folk steel, slide and twelve-string guitars and organs to more robust rock-outs and even Thin Lizzy-like duelling guitar lines. While closer ‘On and On and On’ could be described as a tepid rehash of earlier ideas (in this case Yankee Hotel Foxtrot’s ‘Reservations’), its minimalist piano refrain, like much of the album, is utterly compelling in its own intrinsic and unique way.

8 out of 10

Wilco | The Palais | April 18th-19th
Review by Thomas Mendelovits


Anything your favourite band can do, Wilco can do better. Well, almost… but death metal, hip-hop, and punk are lame anyway.

Over two nights at the Palais, lovers of ‘alt.country’ (or judging by the audience demographic, ‘contemporary adult indie’) were enthralled as songwriter-in-chief Jeff Tweedy sang his by turns earnest, sweet, and cheeky, lovelorn ballads aided by his famously accomplished band of five; including free-jazzguitarist Nels Cline and Glenn Kotche, a drummer who has released solo experimental records of his own. Clocking in at over two and a half hours with numerous encores, the Wilco experience was so awesome for this reviewer and evidently many others who snapped up the half-price offer for Wednesday ticket-stub holders and went again for the Thursday show.

The attention to detail shown over Wilco’s last three studio albums (Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, A Ghost is Born, and the yet to be released, though internet-leaked Sky Blue Sky) was equally matched by their live show, with each member adding their own poetic touch and constantly surprising even those fans who know every song note for note. Indeed, during a couple of songs, the whole band looked shocked by some unexpected deft work from Kotche, while the seemingly endless tones coming out of Cline’s guitar plus effects board (he seemed to control the entire mix at times) were a constant delight. The addition of Cline after Yankee Hotel Foxtrot was destined to pad out their live sound, but Tweedy showed himself a most fine player too, and the beautifully jagged lines on ‘At Least That’s What You Said’, which I thought heralded Cline’s coming on A Ghost is Born, turned out to be Tweedy’s doing.


To make such complex pop music takes a lot of work, but the members of Wilco must love music so much that it seems more like play. Just watch I am trying to break your heart, Sam Jones’ documentary about the process of recording Yankee Hotel Foxtrot. Jeff Tweedy’s jest: “we’ll bring it to you sitting down or standing up. We don’t even need an audience, we’re like this when we go home to practice alone”, repeated over both nights after some of the more excitable audience members tried to instigate a general rise from seats, does not seem in jest at all when you witness Tweedy and ex-member Jay Bennett’s ecstatic reaction to a single keyboard note while they listen to a playback in the documentary.

To my mind, there’s nothing like seeing a band you love charm the socks off the entire audience in witty repartee, and indeed it was great to see Jeff Tweedy prove he is not so self-serious as some of his lyrics may suggest. He answered almost every heckler and brought the house down on a number of occasions. A call for “A.M.!” (their first album) was answered with: “A.M.? You still listen to A.M. here? You think we’re so quaint, going to bed with transistor radios under our pillows, listening to the ball game”. (The request was granted, however, the band played one song from the 1995 album). On the Thursday, Tweedy came out strumming the intro to ‘Hesitating Beauty’ but after numerous requests started an impromptu ‘Reservations’. Seeming to be swayed by a plea from a woman in the front row (“C’mon Jeff, it’s romantic”) the heartbreaking simplicity of the song was only augmented by the band.

A close tie for most magical moment came with the ridiculously perfectly structured ‘A Shot in the Arm’, which hurtles on and on with the bare minimum of chords, seeming to go nowhere but yet constantly changing. The barometer for ‘most magical moment’ in this case proved accurate with a high proportion of audience members losing their shit to this number. The crowd fell dead silent during the final encore on Wednesday, when Tweedy, alone and unplugged, stood on the lip of the stage and sung an old song from his Uncle Tupelo back-catalogue. By now, the rapport generated couldn’t have been any higher, or the applause any louder, and it seemed both band and crowd left positively beaming.

The Best Of The V-Festival (Pixies, Jarvis Cocker, Phoenix, New York Dolls) | The Sidney Myer Music Bowl | April 4th
Review by Thomas Mendelovits


“Hey… been trying to meet you!” was a sentiment many fans could concur with when the recently reformed Pixies (the band broke up in 1993) announced they would be traveling to our shores for the first time ever as part of the V-Festival line-up.

However, for Melbourne fans, this meeting would prove more difficult to arrange as the V-Festival was only to be held in Sydney and Brisbane. For a long time, no-one knew what the hell was going on, but finally, two showcase ‘Best of V-Festivals’ were announced for the Sidney Myer Music Bowl featuring the Pet Shop Boys, Gnarls Barkley, Groove Armada, and The Rapture on one night and the Pixies, Jarvis Cocker, Phoenix, and the New York Dolls on the next night. Cynicism abounded regarding Virgin’s tactics to trick hordes of Melbourne music fans flying interstate for the Festival and to make matters worse, side-shows for all acts were announced seemingly deliberately at the last-minute and for the Pixies quickly sold out. Bottom line, for many of us this was probably the only chance ever to see the Pixies.

It may seem like I’m forgetting the other bands, it felt the same way on the night. Fans of the New York Dolls and Jarvis Cocker, seminal in their own right though not to the extent or the ‘nowness’ of the Pixies, probably enjoyed their side-shows, while the addition of Phoenix padded out a brilliantly diverse line-up yet one which favoured the kinds of fans attracted primarily to the Pixies. Anyway, here’s my gripe: festivals should make you feel insignificant and yet part of an epic and transcendent event. But, from the ridiculously far partition of General Admission from Reserved Seating and the stage as well as the long queues to get into the licensed section, and the general disinterest in three of the four acts, a damper was put on the ‘festiveness’ of the event from the very beginning. I guess they were right in naming it the ambiguous ‘Best of V-Festival’. “Must be a devil between us”, indeed.

Even if views of the stage were far from revealing, the sound was great and for the people in the Reserved section I’m sure the three acts prior to the Pixies put on a fantastic show. Being a fan of Phoenix I stayed for their whole set, and they quashed any doubts as to their out-of-studio legitimacy, but the lack of people and atmosphere in General Admission was a bummer. It seemed more people were busy socialising and quenching their thirsts in the overly corporate Jaeger and Red Bull tents, right up until the end of Jarvis Cocker’s set. Jarvis doesn’t do any Pulp songs (“That would just be wrong”) but his new solo material is strong enough and he is an expert charmer.

Before the Pixies were due out, the grassy knoll quickly filled and ironically now it was almost impossible for most people to see anything from General Admission. However, a chill went through the crowd from the very first bars of drums of ‘Bone Machine’ and by the time Black Francis and Kim Deal locked voices the whole vibe was immediately transformed. It was a bizarre experience to see and experience people coming together, singing along to the debauched and depraved science fiction, biblical and marine themed lyrics of Charles Thompson, but this only proved their cult and now-classic status. During ‘Hey!’, ‘Where is my mind?’ and ‘Here Comes Your Man’ especially it really did feel like a festival and they seemed to play nearly every song, or at least those which by now they realise are all but perfect.

From comparing reports of their side-shows it seems that the Pixies themselves felt like this gig was some kind of festival; indulging the crowd with some nice banter (that’s such a negative word, personality display?), on-stage antics, and an encore, none of which occurred at the Palace. Stopping dead in the middle of ‘Where Is My Mind?’ seemed like a ploy suited perfectly to the manic build-up of that song, however, it turned out that a beach-ball had landed on stage and Black quipped: “Pixies don’t do beach-balls”. It took bassist Deal a while to figure out where to come back in from, and aided by Francis it was nice to see the two, whose bumpy history has been so commented on, share a joke. During the final encore, ‘La La Love You’, each band member took the mic to sing “I love you” to each other and then left the stage with arms interlocked. Ah, it was pretty good after all.